


Not So Starry-Eyed Anymore

by predictaslash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Little bit fluffy), M/M, Scars, virgin!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predictaslash/pseuds/predictaslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” he begins casually, as if he’s just informing Peter of the weather.  “Humans are soft and squishy and delicate.  As much as I try to keep up with everything going on in the hellhole that is Beacon Hills, I can’t.  I trip, I fall, I get impaled.  On occasion, I get tortured.”  He sees the shift in Peter’s facial expression that indicates that he’s caught on.  He grabs the hem of his shirt and hesitates just a bit--he expects Peter to pounce on him here, to see his unsurety and use it to hurt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Starry-Eyed Anymore

Stiles is nothing if not observant. He knows the moment Peter figures it out. His face lights up and Stiles imagines it’s what a shark scenting blood looks like. You let your guard down for one second and Peter will catch it, catch you in whatever lie or truth you’re trying not to let go of. The real mistake would be letting him think that what he just uncovered is important to Stiles (it is), so he wills himself not to turn red, wills himself to stay put rather than flee the room. He stays put, he doesn’t flush, he casually acts casual and hopes he’s a better actor than he was in high school. 

He’s not. 

“I had wondered, of course,” comes a voice right into his ear and Stiles refuses to jump. He goes about his business of pretending to read this page on mermaid lore. 

“Oh, of course.” He shrugs and scrolls down with his mouse. Types a note about how mermaids reproduce.

“We’re landlocked, Stiles.” Stiles finally gives Peter the attention he wants by looking up at him, confused by the non sequitur. Peter smiles, feigning helpfulness, and gestures at his laptop. “Beacon Hills has never encountered a mermaid. They--”

“Live in salt water, I know. But, in case you didn’t notice, Palo Alto is surrounded by salt water and I’d rather not get lured to my death by a pretty voice before I graduate.” 

“One year left. Plenty of time to drown.” What a weird fucking thing to say. “And three years gone already, your precious experimental college days coming to a close and you…” he trails off and Stiles will not take the bait, he will not.

“And me?” he prompts. _Damn it._

Peter grins a nasty, predatory grin, the one he never shows around Derek because how else would he dupe his nephew into thinking he’s harmless these days. “And you, still a virgin.”

And there it is. Stiles’s deep, dark secret out for all to hear. Except he and Peter are alone in Derek’s latest creepy residence that shouldn’t count as a home for anyone, even if they are an emotionally stunted, unemployed mess with a poor taste in women. Stiles rolls his eyes and he wonders if willing his heart not to skip a beat will ever work for him. His Spark is fucking worthless if all it does is allow him to make mountain ash boundaries. Like, why even have magic? “Says you.” Peter opens his mouth, probably to say something ridiculous about his werewolf senses, but Stiles cuts him off. “And please don’t tell me you can smell my innocence, you fucking creep.”

“It’s mostly in the way you blush so pretty.” Peter’s voice has dropped an octave and Stiles fails to suppress the shiver that goes up his spine when Peter’s breath hits his ear. Stiles swivels his chair around in order to try to gain some control over this situation, to at least not have Peter at his back, jugular easily within biting distance. Stiles really didn’t anticipate he’d be spinning around so that his face would be at crotch level, but at least he manages to lock eyes with Peter and keep his chin up high.

He bites his bottom lip, feels the familiar groove of wear from worrying at one spot for too many years, but he doesn’t flinch away from the challenge of eye contact--refuses to lose this fight for dominance. 

“So, what happened, Stiles? Not interested?” Stiles just blinks. “Childhood trauma?” Blinks again. “Performance anxiety?” And again. “Saving it for The One?” Stiles can tell from the way Peter tenses up in anticipation that he thought that last one was the reason. That maybe Stiles would tell him that he doesn’t believe in sex without love, or is still so in love with Lydia that he couldn’t possibly imagine having sex with anyone else. 

“I guess no one has ever been ready for this jelly.” Stiles mostly isn’t stupid. He knows that once Peter latches onto something, he’s not going to let go. He debates just owning the truth, coming out with it first before someone else can hurt him in any way, but it just doesn’t seem natural or fluid and also he doesn’t owe Peter anything. Peter owes him for allowing him to live after he came back from the dead.

“I can’t imagine it’s that you’re shy.” Peter goes on, staring at Stiles as if dissecting him with his eyes. “No, you’ve never been the shrinking violet type.” And isn’t that the truth? Stiles maintains eye contact with Peter, trying to prove that he’s brave and bold. “Hmm. Rare fetish you’re ashamed of, perhaps?”

Stiles snorts. “I wish that was the reason.” Damn it, damn it. Stiles needs to stop letting these things out. His teeth grab at his lip again and the skin finally breaks open under the pressure. Peter’s nostrils flare and maybe he really is a wereshark, but Stiles can’t tell if he’s scenting the blood on his lip or if he’s excited that he’s getting close to Stiles’s secret.

Peter leans in, puts his hands on either side of Stiles, leaning on the armrests of his chair. Up close, the eye contact is threatening to make Stiles’s eyes cross, but he refuses to back down. “Stiles.” Stiles has never heard his name purred out quite like that before and it’s doing things to his whole body. “Tell me.”

“I tried a few times,” it’s just starting to spill out of him like maybe all of those years of watching everyone else be normal is finally getting to him. He wants what everyone else has--it’s not a lack of desire, it’s, “Not even dating people, just hook ups at parties where it wouldn’t be weird if I didn’t take off my shirt since someone could walk in.” 

Peter looks so legitimately confused that Stiles smiles just a bit. “Please do not tell me that you have body image issues.” Peter looks down at his body, eyes roving slowly down, as if he’s trying to figure out what Stiles is so worried about. 

“Um, a) anyone can have body dysmorphic disorder, it’s a real thing, and b) it’s not dysmorphia if there’s something wrong.” 

“I know you changed and showered in front of people for lacrosse.”

“That is something you definitely shouldn’t say considering how underage I was.”

“And Scott would have blabbed by now in an attempt to have us all make you feel better about whatever it is if he knew.” Good point, that. 

Stiles puts his hand on Peter’s chest to push him away from his body--just enough to make room. Even through his shirt, Peter feels impossibly warm, and Stiles unconsciously lets his index finger brush over the skin right above that deep collar. Peter’s nose twitches, but he otherwise gives nothing away about how the touch affects him.

He stands up so that he’s so close to Peter--they line up head to toe and Stiles could count Peter’s eyes lashes if he tried. Peter moves back, which surprises Stiles to no end--Peter would never willingly back down. Maybe Stiles is reading this whole thing wrong, maybe Peter’s not into him and years of flirting and sexual tension during Winter and Summer breaks was all just Peter being his normal, dickish self.

“You know,” he begins casually, as if he’s just informing Peter of the weather. “Humans are soft and squishy and delicate. As much as I try to keep up with everything going on in the hellhole that is Beacon Hills, I can’t. I trip, I fall, I get impaled. On occasion, I get tortured.” He sees the shift in Peter’s facial expression that indicates that he’s caught on. He grabs the hem of his shirt and hesitates just a bit--he expects Peter to pounce on him here, to see his unsurety and use it to hurt him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he brings his hands up to Stiles’s to help him do what he’s only done in the privacy of his own room in the last few years. 

Stiles’s shirt falls to the ground and Peter just stands there and takes it in. He doesn’t seem to be grossed out or to pity what he sees. He’s just observing, memorizing. Peter is just looking at Stiles.

“Scars? That’s it?” He sounds very unimpressed.

“That’s it?” Stiles looks down at his chest, which isn’t even the worst of it and it’s still pretty torn up. “If you were a normal person and you saw these--” he points to the cigarette burns on his upper left arm, normally covered by his t-shirt-- “what would you think?” 

“Who--”

“Gerard Argent. There was that time he kidnapped me and beat the holy living fuck out of me. So, anyway, I really didn’t want to have a talk about being abused by my dad or anything. Can’t exactly be like no, it’s totally cool, I hang out with werewolves when I’m not in class. And this--“ he gestures at his chest “isn’t all of it. Oh, no, I have my very own set of alpha claw marks, courtesy of...oh, that’s right, Peter Hale.” When Stiles turns around to show off the permanent fixtures marring his back, Peter lets out this weird strangled noise and Stiles doesn’t know what to think. Maybe Peter’s reliving those horrible moments when he had Stiles hanging from his claws like a cow’s carcass from a meat hook. That moment when Peter had a tentative grasp on Stiles, a look of actual, legitimate fear in his eyes right before he saved Stiles from certain death. 

Stiles had waited for almost three weeks before he knew the claws hadn’t sank in deep enough to turn him. Three weeks of worrying that his senses would heighten and the moon would turn him into a raving, douchey lunatic. 

He almost jumps out of his skin when a soft fingertip runs down one of the claw marks. Not much startles him, but he realizes that other than Scott’s mom, who patched him up, no one has touched his scars. If a slight touch is this overwhelming, how would Peter’s big hands feel touching everywhere they can possibly reach?

“You know,” and how is Peter’s voice even that gravelly? “We’ve met plenty of people in our strange town who would have loved to have a go at you.”

“How romantic.” He wants to sound as bitchy and sarcastic as he normally is, but it’s a little hard when his eyes are fluttering shut at the sensation of Peter running his finger over his scars. 

“Is that what you want? Romance?”

Stiles doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, but he opens up his mouth anyway, only to get cut off by a trail of brief kisses that start to move down his spine. Dry little kisses that would seem innocent, perhaps casual if shared between lovers, if not for the fact that hands come to rest on his waist, then head for his belt. Stiles bats the hands away and then turns around, wishing he didn’t sound so breathless when he says, “Wait. What’s happening right now?”

“Stiles,” that deep voice again. He wonders how often that voice alone gets Peter what he wants because he’s pretty close to falling down on his knees and doing whatever he wants. Is this a werewolf superpower he’s never known about? Doubtful--he’s seen how Derek interacts with, well, everyone. “I know you’re a virgin, but you’re not naïve.” No, Stiles has never been that--naïve is Scott’s game.

“So, what? We’re going to have sex now because you see something that no one else has ever had and now you want it?” Stiles knows Peter, has known him for six years now. Has seen his ups and his downs and his in betweens. Has seen him bite into his date to the dance, has seen him get his throat slashed, has seen him rip out someone else’s throat, has seen him grin and rant and want and mourn and regret and lie and tease. _Stiles is nothing if not observant._ So he knows how Peter works. How Peter wants and possesses and owns and consumes. How he loves pretty, sassy things and how he destroys them after. “I may not know what I want, but I know that I _don’t_ want to be ripped apart anymore.”

Stiles can feel his body sag as he backs down, as he averts his eyes to stare at his shoes. He doesn’t know if he could really say no again. It’s not that he’s that desperate to get laid and be a normal person his age--the world’s progressed enough and he has a tumblr, so he knows that there is no black and white, there is no “normal” when it comes to sexual experiences. 

He feels raw. Here he is with his shirt off in front of someone else for the first time in years, acknowledging his woeful lack of a love life, and he’s sharing the moment with Peter. Of all people, _Peter Hale_. 

Stiles _wants_ so much so suddenly and it’s completely overwhelming. 

He lets out a strangled noise as Peter steps closer, and he’d push him away, but there’s something calming, gentling in his movements. Not like he’s trying to subdue Stiles, but like he’s treating Stiles like something precious and soft. Peter reaches out for one of his hands, and Stiles watches as he places Stiles’s hand on his own cheek. Stiles can feel the stubble along Peter’s chin as he is manoeuvered to cup his face. Peter drops his own hand and Stiles’s stays up. He explores Peter’s jaw and cheek and upper lip with his thumb, of his own volition. Peter nuzzles into the hand on his face, fluttering his eyes closed and opening his lips ever so slightly to let a contented sigh escape.

As Stiles explores, he realizes with a jolt that he’s rubbing his thumb where Peter’s scars were before he came out of the coma, before he healed and went full-rampage on everyone. Stiles’s other hand flies up to touch the skin that covers Peter’s larynx. Nothing physical gives it away, of course, but his memory is as clear as the day it happened--a gush of blood as Derek slashed his uncle’s throat, the life draining from his body.

“We could try to put each other back together.” Stiles’s hand moves with the words as Peter speaks. Which is good, because he’s worried he had imagined it. He doesn’t respond, and Peter slits his eyes open, hesitantly making eye contact as if expecting to see rejection written all over his face.

“Oh!” Stiles feels like a douche and a half, but really, Peter can handle being the vulnerable one for once. “Um, I think this is where we kiss now.”

So they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Decemberists--Make You Better
> 
> Still stuck on my big fics...sigh.


End file.
